


camp -fucked

by Bobsled_Hostage



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, The Iliad - Homer, The Odyssey - Homer
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Depression, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Infanticide, Predestination, Pregnant Sex, Sexual Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:54:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26006029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bobsled_Hostage/pseuds/Bobsled_Hostage
Summary: The mad prophetess in a brief moment of respite, on the long journey back to the end.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 21





	camp -fucked

Cassandra lies on a heap of cushions in a cabin aboard the King’s ship, on the grueling voyage back to the hard land of Mycenae. Naked, sweaty and pregnant, in the King’s bed.

She should roll on her side and reach for her chiton, but in six minutes the King will come into the room and strip her.

She should squat over the chamber pot and relieve the pressure the twins are putting on her bladder, but she’s going to piss herself anyway when he fucks her.

She should scoot on the sweaty sheets until the bedside table is in reach, snatch some water from the pitcher. And maybe a fig or two. Eat something. She has no excuse for this one, but she still doesn’t do it.

She should find something stronger to drink. Drown the pair of bastards swimming around uterus in wine. It would be a mercy, and it would spare her bleeding and swelling and sleepless nights. Would spare little Pelops and precious Teledamus from being just old enough to maybe-understand when the same thing happened to them. Swung by their ankles. Brains everywhere.

But the piece of shit handmaid the piece of shit King set over her won’t let her have a drop. Not mixed, let alone the raw stuff. The kind they say drives you mad. Which is the idea. Dissolve her brain for a bit. Let her think about something besides dead babies and angry Kings with hairy fat cocks.

He doesn’t keep her chained anymore, satisfied she isn’t going to leap over the side. So she should waddle out onto the deck. Spend her six minutes of freedom in the shade, with at least the sea breeze and salt spray to keep her cool. Hide from the sun somewhere that isn’t an oven, like this cabin.

Gods, the Sun. _There’s_ something to take her mind off what’s about to happen. She spaces out for a moment and instead of being catapulted to the future, she’s back on her knees, blinded by the Healer’s blazing white light. Smiling down on her. Telling her he desires her. Offering the gift of prophecy if she would just loan him for an afternoon what her vows had already pledged to him for life. Talk about a fucking theophany.

_Why couldn’t you have just sucked his dick?_

It would certainly be preferable to the alternative. She counts forward, every time she’ll swallow the King of Mycenae’s greasy cock. She feels nauseous for a moment. Maybe its morning sickness. There’s a sick sense of relief though. Every time, that’s one less time she has to do it again. Her third eye looks forward, counting down each rough, messy encounter until the end. They get more frequent as the arc nears its completion, though. The pregnancy makes her tits bigger, and he can’t keep his hands off him. He wants to get inside her as often as he can, before the delivery leaves her loose. He’s worried she’ll die in labor and leave him bereft of a cumrag until he gets back to his wife.

She knows she won’t be so lucky. It’s a long voyage back before she gets to finally rest. Filled with a lot of semen.

Speaking of which, her six minutes are up. Here he comes, the cock of the walk, the Troy reaver, cape billowing as he tosses it over the rack by the cabin door. He doesn’t say anything, just yanks his peplos over his head. She doesn’t need prescience to know he’s already granite-hard.

Cassandra pushes herself up on an elbow, groaning a little at the weight of the two half-formed infanticides waiting inside her. She has to slurp a string of drool before speaking. Must have fallen asleep for a second.

“She’s going to kill you with an axe. Your wife.” She strikes her head with the thumb of her closed fist, miming the killing blow “She’s fucking the weak lion. It’s his idea.”

Agamemnon the Atreides grunts and unwraps his breechcloth. He doesn’t listen. He never does, when she’s “raving”. She counts on it. She wouldn’t tell him if she thought it would save him. It gives her the strength to go on. It makes her happy, to know he eventually gets what’s coming to him.

Problem is, until then, so does she.

**Author's Note:**

> Based on an amalgamation of several (mutually incompatible) sources on what happened to Cassandra
> 
> This interpretation of the character is inspired in part by the one in "Ilium/Olympos" by Simmons
> 
> Work title and epithets of Agamemnon obviously knocked off of Heaney's "Mycenae Lookout"


End file.
